


My First Sight

by EscapePub



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Complete, Gen, M/M, warning: unbeta'd, warning: unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 16:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EscapePub/pseuds/EscapePub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock is not overly familiar with emotion. Thus, it is only logical, that when his sight is taken from him, the emotional repercussions of this loss catch him quite unawares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into writing K/S (though some may consider this K&S for the subtlety of the slash). Writing in Spock's POV intimidated the hell out of me to begin with, but once I settled on 1st person and present tense, it became a smooth, enjoyable process.
> 
> I based this fic on the episode "Operation--Annihilate!" which is the last episode of season 1. Basically, I weaved around canon and edited just enough to make it a different story.

First Officer Spock's Personal Log, stardate 3287.2.

I have recorded my account of our recent mission in my official log. There I spoke of the one-celled creatures that had been systematically invading planets, infecting their inhabitants with a virus of pain inducing tissue, which then compelled those inhabitants to enable the creatures' further spread. I detailed the actions we took against these creatures; I listed the casualties suffered; I stated, for the record, how victory was achieved.

Now, I say—I admit, for my own peace of mind, that it was a painful ordeal... However, the events of our past mission were not memorable for their pain, but for the emotional consequences of said pain. Emotion I could not avoid, and now... do not regret, could never regret, experiencing. For in that tumult of impulse and irrationality, I sought and found... Jim.

My Jim.  
–

We have beamed down to the planet's surface, “we” being the captain, his yeoman, Mr. Scott, Dr. McCoy, a security unit, and myself. It is a modern environment, with paved walkways, highway systems, and clean, block shaped infrastructure. The plant life we encounter has been cultivated neatly, and is contained between stretches of concrete. In the distance, I make out signs of a freer landscape, behind the rigid hills of civilization.

It must be noted, however, that this highly urbanized, modern environment is barren of visible or audible human life. For minutes after our beaming down, silence and stillness reign, aside from our own footsteps. So still, in fact, that when a band of screaming locals advances on our party, I am quite accepting of the disturbance.

“Get out of here!”

“Back!”

“We don't want to hurt ya! Get out!”

“Leave—!”

“Phasers on stun,” the captain orders.

The hostiles come within comfortable range, and the captain calls our fire. They fall unconscious feet from us, allowing the previous quiet to sweep in again, and we approach them. Dr. McCoy examines them via tricorder, to astonishing results.  
–

Captain Kirk's brother is dead. The dead man's wife is screaming, held in the arms of the captain. On the floor lays the prone form of the captain's nephew. It is an unexpected situation, to say the least, and so I leave it. I explore the connected rooms, run a tricorder over where I assume the vents to be. There is nothing, and so I head back into the first room.

The captain is against the wall, his back to the gruesome scene we have discovered. I see his fist raise, see his head turn into it. He is the pillar to which we all cling in the tumult of space travel, and he trembles now.

I hold my tricorder in both hands and glance about the area, taking in McCoy above the unconscious boy, and the air vent gaping above the captain's head. I do not look at him again—not until I stand directly at his side.

His shoulders are tense. He does not look at me, either.

Something rises within me, an insistent burning. It compels me to speak. "Captain, I know how you must—"

His head wavers minutely in my direction. "Yes, Mr. Spock.” His voice is quiet, and I heed its implications.

My concern is dismissed, quelled and pushed aside accordingly; he has not lost command.  
–

Further on, we discover the woman's source of horror: strange masses of flesh, which stick upon surfaces and emit unnerving arcs of noise. Despite my scientific curiosity, I immediately wish to destroy them.

We retreat, as is best.

There is a moment, when Jim turns and I have as well, when his back is to me again. In that moment, I remember what he must be feeling, and that same compelling rush of emotion rises within me. My breath catches.

In the next moment, I am on the ground, and for a moment I think— _This is concern?_ But that noise arcs in my ear, shrill and revolting, and I know, before the first strike of agony, that a parasite is upon me.

Down on my hands and knees, I keen. I groan with each exhale and shudder and twist as I reach to tear the creature from me. The bellow of pain that escapes me in not mine to control, but the creature's to incite.

Then, he is there. Jim's mind pushes against my shields while his physical hands obstruct my movements. He grips me, body and mind, and says, “Spock, are you alright?!” And I feel I must scream for him to _get it off me_ but instead I pant, thrash, and he throws me over.

I stare up into the face of my captain—into his wide, demanding eyes, his tanned human skin—and I think, _No, Captain, not at all,_ as the rising force of my emotion is set free.  
–

Pain is a simple thing. It is communication from the body, a primal, vital means of survival. Pain is a feeling we must experience, but pain can be misleading in its urgency. It's desperation.

I remind myself of this, and more. I stare up at the ceiling and register none of its detail. The pain does not spike with movement, as with the jarring of a broken bone; rather, it is a constant thing, so constant that I marvel at my mind's continued ability to recognize it as such. I for a moment feel that there is nothing but pain, that it is all I have and ever will experience.

I know I am being tricked, manipulated by this feeling, by the tendrils of parasitic tissue that have invaded my entire body. I know my body has not been damaged; I know this pain is for naught; but there is an alien drive behind it. An alien drive which demands of me, and when I first wake, I give to it.

On the bridge, I manage to hesitate at pivotal moments, to restrict my strength just enough; and so, when the crew restrains my volatile body, my suffering mind, they succeed for long enough that the doctor can sedate me, and he does. The pain follows me into sleep, and the captain's sorrowful— _yes, that is the word_ —his sorrowful eyes watch us go.

When I next awaken, it is with the memory of the captain's predicament.

He stands before me, stiff and restrained, close to the doctor's side. He watches me as humans watch dying things.

"I have my own will, Captain. Let me help," I rasp.

When he looks at me now, I see terror in his eyes. When he denies me, I know what must be done.  
–

The restraints are nothing against Vulcan strength, though they should be. Grateful as I am that I have a means of escape, I think of what might have occurred had I been unable to regain control of my faculties.

I would have escaped. I would have stormed the bridge. I would have attacked the helmsman, and I would have been stunned, before or after irreparable damage was done. Or I might have been killed, rather than stunned and sent down to the planet. As I equip myself with the proper scanning and specimen retrieval tools, I think of this in a small corner of my mind. It keeps Jim in my thoughts, and thus my rationality in control.

I encounter no trouble in the sick bay, in the halls, or in the turbolift. It is, of course, inevitable, that the transporter room be occupied. However, I had estimated the chances of there being two persons, as opposed to one, in the room to be considerably small. It was then not surprising that I came upon Scotty in the transporter room, along with the engineering officer manning the controls, but it was statistically unfortunate.

I realized that attacking more members of the crew would not lease me any credit, but I had not intended to lose.

Recalculation is in order. When the Captain enters, I have organized the conversation to come logically in my mind.

Slow movements, full of power and command, become him as he steps toward me. His eyes seek and hold mine.

I feel determined amidst the pain. "Captain, I am the logical choice."

Behind Jim, the doctor makes an emotional scene, and I observe him momentarily. Such concern, such feral compassion the doctor possesses. I realize that he feels for me, and I am reminded of my mother.

Jim is compassionate. He worries; he feels for me—but Jim is a Starship captain, and he recognizes the needs of the many before the needs of the few, or the one. He reminds me of no other but himself.  
–

I beam down to the planet, eyes straight ahead. Still, I see Jim. I see his stony expression, his professional veneer of calm—and amidst the agony, I feel for him, too. My Jim.

The world dissolves around me, and when I do not exist as Spock, when I am disassembled particles of energy, I feel a brief respite from the pain. When it returns, a trick of sensation convinces me it has worsened.  
–

He does not want to send me away again. Of course not. However, I am again the optimal candidate for this experiment, and he knows that. Acknowledges it.

The doctor protests, as he always will where health is concerned. I remember the transporter room for a moment, recall the expression on McCoy's face as he argues against my beaming down. He was frowning, as always, but his eyes were wide, as well. I think it was this, maybe, that reminded me of my mother—for once, she looked upon me freely with wide eyes. Horrified eyes, I think now. Presently, the doctor is not horrified; he is grim, resigned. He is accustomed to this life.

When I step into the experiment chamber, the creature within me attacks my system radically. Such pain that I could never have conceived of brings me to my knees. I shake on the ground for an interminable span of time—but the mission, our purpose, is more important than this pain. _Jim,_ I think, pushing myself to my feet. _More important than any perceived injury._

I sit, and wait to be blinded.  
–

Relief.

The weight is gone from my shoulders; the pressure on my control has dissipated, as if it were never there; my body feels lighter, almost too easy to bear. When I stand, the ease of it hurts in a beautiful way—yes, _beautiful_ like the stars, like an oasis deep in the Vulcan desert, like _Jim_. I am not comfortable with this sensation, powerful and alien as it is, but it will not be subdued entirely. I open my eyes to darkness with beauty in my heart.

"The creature within me is gone." I stand straight, look forward with military precision. When I step forward, the air of my friends flows around me, and I collide with new-found inability in good company. "I am also... quite blind," I must say, I must announce and accept. _It is beautiful to be free_ , I think, though something intangible within me aches.

Hands guide me to a seat, and I imagine the scene. I remember McCoy's frowning concern, Jim's stoic resolve. "An equitable trade, Doctor." _Believe me, my Jim._ In the sudden darkness, a thread of aloneness has become apparent, and thus I wish, not for the first time, for a window into his mind.

" _Bones_..." Raw, restrained, and powerful, he stills. For a long moment, there is silence, and the air thrums with tension. "Take care of him," he finally declares. And he leaves.

For some time after, the doctor and I do not speak.  
–

I perceive that I disturb the doctor as I am now. To what degree I am unsure, but that he labors under guilt _is_ sure. He scribbles on a pad at his desk, pausing intermittently. In these pauses, I feel his eyes as I have never felt a stare before, and I wonder if my blindness has conjured this sensation—if he is, in fact, watching me, or if I have become overly sensitive to quiet. To the unknown.

Activity would be foolish on my part, but after approximately one hour, fifteen minutes and ten seconds, there can be no other alternative. I must escape. I must pursue solitude. First, however, it would be best to attempt... comfort—that is, I feel I should lay the doctor's guilt to rest, as best I am able.

I sit up in the bio-bed deliberately. I divest myself of the bed clothes given me, and place my feet upon the ground. There I sit, upon the edge of the bed, my hands gripping the sides, and I begin to speak. My voice is level, gentle in the stillness of sickbay, as I stare into nothing and say, "I think it obvious that you are in no way responsible for the current state of my eyes. It was, of course, my decision to act as the patient in our necessary experiment; I am gratified that my decision will aid us in our mission and ensure the safe return of peace to this planet, as well as prevent the invasion of any others. Indeed, if I were human, I might feel a sense of... pride, if you will. Thus, you would be justified in feeling rather positive about the state of things; in essence, your guilt, while understood as a normal human reaction, is unnecessary and unwelcome. That is—" I exhale. "I appreciate your concern, Doctor. I... I shall always appreciate your concern, but I would not have you feel guilt."

Seconds stretch between us. I feel an unreasonable anxiety, a growing awareness of the silence, which had dissipated partially with the perfunctory air of a speech read. I realize that I may have misspoken towards the end of my monologue, that I did not execute human "comfort" very well—but I did not expect to, as I am not human. I only felt that he would understand my meaning, as a comrade, as a valued friend. And yet, in this quiet, I sense his dissent and his rejection. It prompts me further. "I would have the solitude of my quarters, Doctor."

"That..."

I devise of seven different ways that I might convince the doctor, all valid arguments that I am prepared to outline logically.

He exhales in a human sigh. "Of course, Spock."

I incline my head, and it is as if a cease fire has been ordered. We speak only to say goodbye after that, when he leaves me at my door.  
–

I had never ascribed a sentimentality to my quarters, or to the items I store within them. It has proven, however, to be an unavoidable shock at every instance of my entering a room, that I do not see it. Thus, when I enter my quarters, I dedicate a sizable portion of my time to exploring. It is a valid engagement, as I will have to navigate blind from hence forth, and so I do not consider it a whimsical exercise.

But, as I examine my meditation area with my available senses, I see it in my mind for a moment—a lingering imprint of what must be, of the mat, the incense, the candles, the utilitarian layout—I must admit to myself that emotion, whatever its name, drives me. I should not have expected otherwise.

Kneeling, hands in my lap, I begin to clear my mind. Slowly, I allow myself to feel without hindrance, and each new wave of emotion is carefully tucked away. This occupies me for approximately two hours.  
–

For a moment, I experienced a sense of crippling inability, though I could not name the emotion at first. I had emerged from the trance, stood from the mat, and opened my eyes slightly. I had not forgotten I could not see, but where movement was necessary, I found that my eyes preferred the illusion of awareness. I theorized that it would be prudent to allow this behavior, indeed to preserve it, so as not to attract undue attention when walking the halls.

Thus, I moved, eyelids half mast, to my desk and sat down. I reached for my padd, intent on using this idle time for paperwork, before the realization that I could _not_ overcame me. Curiously, I thought, my easy mood wilted. I pushed away from my desk and pondered this reaction, taking note of the spontaneous depression weighing my thoughts.

 _I cannot make any headway in my mandatory paperwork,_ I thought. _I cannot... read._ No, I had not forgotten I could not see, but I had failed to realize how this blindness would affect my efficiency as an officer. My enjoyment as a sentient being. It was then that I understood: this was despondency. As a Vulcan—that is, as a highly scientific, intelligent, driven being—I had not felt this often, or ever, in my life.

I know this emotion is harmless. It is unpleasant, but it may be willed away by reason, or erased by meditation. I am equipped to handle this response, and that knowledge alone alleviates any encroaching anxiety. I engage in a ten minute meditative state and emerge refreshed. My texts are, at the moment, unavailable—but music will occupy me.

Standing, I approach the alcove where I store my bookshelves and lute. I reach out, calculating the distance necessary to reach my instrument, knowing my fingers will reach the body, and yet a pleasurable relief nevertheless fills me upon that contact. I allow myself the slightest of smiles as I settle down to play idly on my bed.

The music starts out barren, dry and disjointed as my fingers test the notes. When they are tuned to my satisfaction, I begin to weave a warm up, which evolves naturally into a gentle melody—the first I ever played for my mother. My eyes drift shut as the notes weave in the air about me, timed to perfection, highly satisfying in their ritual punctuality. Such pure relaxation, that which I indulge in fairly rarely, soothes and buries the smart of inability.

I waste the evening in this manner, and when the music softens to its end, I retire in relative peace.

It is then that Jim enters his quarters.

And thus, sleep eludes me.  
–

It was all for naught, I realize as I listen to him. He brushes his teeth, dips briefly in the sonics, strips from his clothing. I hear him climb into bed. He could be sitting on the edge, or laying under his bed clothes for all I know—but I allow myself to indulge fantasy, and I see him on the edge of his bed, head in hands. I imagine that he is agonized by a conglomerate of emotion. I imagine that there, where he is truly alone, he allows himself to feel, just as I do when I retire.

He must be laying down now, I think, but I don't think he will sleep so easily. Like me, Jim has demons to keep him occupied this night, like so many other nights.

I remember them all, here and now while I lay supine and stare into nothing. We spend our days in adventure, in tragedy and victory; but when we separate, when we confine ourselves in solitude, there we meditate in loss—and I in longing. This night, I long for Jim, for the sight and feel of him; but, as was before and ever shall be, I will not have him. Not his visage, or his warmth of body. Thus, here and now, I cannot help my shaky exhale.

I cannot help but leave my bed and go to him.

The floor is cold beneath my bare feet, a sharp stinging sensation that guides me through this marsh of intent. A step, another, in perfect time like my lute, and soon I drop to my knees before the bulkhead which separates us. I close my eyes and nothing changes. I think again, _It was all for naught,_ but I know that is a false statement born of sorrow.

“For Jim.” My head presses lightly into the wall. “My Jim.” And as I reach my hands up, these words on my lips, my mind stretches across the space between us; tendrils of my awareness hover about him, tasting his unconscious mind. I touch him once, just enough to incriminate myself, and Jim flows into me. I accept him willingly, and as guilt consumes me, I confess. I love. There I stay until Jim's mind reaches for wakefulness.

Goodbye is a faint tearing of minds, a crying out of souls.

I shiver in the darkness, eyes closed. My hand reaches out once more, strokes the cold line of the wall, and as I say again, “Jim,” I submit to longing. Hopeful and foolish, my eyes open of their own accord.

There in the gloom, looms my hand.  
–

I step onto the bridge, into the view of alpha shift. The bridge members each sit or stand in their appointed positions, the same as I left them. A sense of belonging settles within me.

Then, they notice me.

Jim watches me with creased, astonished eyes—and I think, yes, he is happy. He follows me, he touches me, he demands of me in subtle ways.

The very core of my being rejoices. I drink in the sight of him unobtrusively.

When we speak, it is sweet. It is dry and humorous, as I seldom allow.

He asks me, “Regaining eyesight would be an emotional experience for most. You, I presume, felt nothing?” His eyes are mischievous, gloating and cheerful. Relief consumes us both.

I do not touch him as he touches me. I do not hold his eyes or connect our minds; but I do say, with what I will admit is a smile, “Quite the contrary, Captain.” And I think it is enough.

Behind us, the Doctor grouches his relief, and the bridge settles into routine contentment.

This is my peace.


End file.
